#and he is to Wyll what Hawke was to him

[invinciblerodent]

i decided to play just a tiny bit of my Inquisitor-as-Tav game I had lined up, and I just.... god, i love this old man

he looks so tired, and kindly, and he's a good head taller than everyone

Lae'zel is so damn tiny next to him, I think he needs to pat her head very sweetly (and then succeed a DC18 dex save to avoid getting his fingers bitten off) (it'll be worth it though, maybe it'll calm her down)

[thedragonagelesbian]

got slutshamed by lae'zel, broke up with astarion, admitted to karlach how much i like her, it's back on babyyyyyy

i got so nervous that cyrus thinking with his goddamn pussy and his very regrettable attraction to astarion had locked me out of other romances bc neither gale nor karlach's personal quest romance options were triggering, but i'm experimenting around with my options during the druid/tiefling camp party, aaaaand i just had to end things with astarion before admitting i like her, lets gooooo

[oops-all-concrete]

I'm back with more BG3 COMPANION REACTIONS!

This time; Companions see Tav (yours/you) getting flirted with and being too shy/stunned to turn the person down and step in for them. As usual, the romance is only as implied as you would like! These can be read as platonic (but I'm happy to write romance specific posts if you lovelies would like)

Lae'zel -

The concept of flirting tires her. Why make eyes and small touches and idle chatter that eludes to a 'something else' if you can just get to the 'something else- immediately? Assuming both parties are interested of course. Unlike now, where Tav is failing miserably at saying no- because they weren't asked "May I taste your flesh and you taste mine in return?" With a roll of the eyes and a calculated stalk, Lae'zel makes her way over to Tav and takes them by the wrist, dragging them away. If she's stopped, she glares and speaks sharp: "Keep your filth to yourself. If they wanted what your company could achieve, they'd roll around in the mud with an actual pig."

Shadowheart -

Wyll -

She watches from afar with some amusement for a time. But- watching them stay seated several times when the "newfound company" kept getting up and seeming eager to leave- she was happy to put her wine down for such an occasion. "Pardon me, but myself and that one have somewhere to be tonight." She says, hooking her arm in Tavs. If pressed, she'll elaborate. "Well, we travel with a Githyanki warrior, the Blade Of Frontiers, a chosen of Mystra, and a cleric of Shar who's had to put down her wine to come over here and apparently repeat herself." She smiles innocently, though her voice is piercing enough to send the stranger walking backwards with their hands up.

He waits with stepping in, giving Tav the agency to say yes or no on their own accord, but as the stranger starts getting a little too familiar, he can't sit still. "Excuse me, I'm afraid my friend here isn't available this evening" He says, friendly but firm. Of course he's challenged- too nice about it- so he stops being nice. "I should have been more clear-" he starts, placing a hand on their shoulder- watching them become more afraid with the distinct crackle and glow of eldritch energy. "You're either leaving alone- or with me. In a bag." He says again, voice darker than usual. The stranger gets the message and Wyll watches them like a hawk out of the building. "Apologies Tav, I shouldn't have been so harsh. I just have a special distaste for people like that."

Karlach -

This woman jumps in the second Tav shakes their head. "Woah, woah, woah!?" She yells from the distance she is, a lot of the tavern pausing their conversations and looking her way. "Yeah, that's enough of that. If they wanted you as bad as you think, they'd have left with you already, yeah? Hands and unfortunate looking face to yourself" She says, cheeky smile on her face, but her hands itching to swing. Of course the person is embarrassed, especially when some giggles start coming in from the crowd, possibly Tav too, but Karlach knows they're safe with the entire tavern as witness. "Let's get outta here, Tav. There's more drinks and less weirdos down the street" She smiles smugly.

Gale -

He's quite socially eloquent when he wants to be, but knows how to be tactically rude as well. The minute Tav starts shuffling subtly closer to him to get away from this other person, he's inserting himself in the conversation. "Oh, you've got art at your home? I've been meaning to talk to another art fanatic, I've quite a few pieces I'd love to discuss back in my tower in waterdeep filled with wonderful architecture, sculpture, Baroque- Oh! Are you familiar with Oskar Fevras? I commissioned him personally a while ago-" he knows he's hard to talk over, and he takes full advantage. The minute the person tries to talk to Tav- Gale immediately gives them an out. "Oh! I just remembered- Tav my good friend! I believe I've left a ring in the bathroom on the sink while washing my hands" Gale talks fast, allowing Tav all the time needed to leave.

Astarion -

Oh this man is an actor. A few times he catches eyes with Tav- notably uncomfortable, and he rolls his red eyes. He disappears for a moment, but before Tav can think, he's throwing himself between Tav and the stranger. "Darling- This is where you've been??" He says, and you can hear the offence in his voice. Several heads turn. Bar staff is concerned. Oh boy. "I thought you said you'd quit drinking?? And here you are while I'm at home waiting! Look how late it is!" It's like, 4PM, and it makes the stranger frown, but Astarion is yelling again before he can be stopped. "And who are you?? Stealing my lover away like a bandit!" He throws his arms around and sounds on the verge of (fake) tears. Of course the stranger is out of there asap, Astarion taking their seat and drink, making himself at home. He smirks at them like a little shit

Halsin -

As polite and friendly as Halsin is, he can look rather intimidating when he wants. He's huge and he knows it, and while he doesn't like doing it, he will use it to his advantage. The minute he picks up on Tavs discomfort, he's a shadow over the pair. The stranger just has a look up at the druid and that has all the effect needed. "Apologies, I'm afraid you're in my seat. My friend was waiting for me" He smiles, arms crossed in front of him, a mountainous man. If they don't move immediately, he leans down to the strangers height, because of course he's much taller. "Don't worry about paying for your drink, I'd much rather pay for that myself than a bloody floor." He says, voice even and friendly, but a vein bulging out of his forehead.

Hope you've you've enjoyed! Who are you looking to for help in this situation? (I take requests, feel free to ask!♡)

[lucrezianoin]

Wyll and Astarion banter (1/2)

Collection of all Wyll and Astarion banter I could find. I started compiling it for fanfic reasons (PART 1 of 2??, i will use the tag wyllstarion banter). Each picture is a different banter. But I added transcriptions:

Astarion: Ever heard of a vampire called Cazador, Wyll? Wyll (knows Astarion is a vampire): I don't think so. Why? Friend of yours? Wyll (doesn't know Astarion is a vampire): Doesn't ring a bell. Why? Gale: He's a patriarch of the Szarr family. Nasty fellow, if the histories are accurate. Astarion: I imagine they are. (note: Darkly, to self)

---

Wyll: I'm surprised I never saw you lurking in the shadows at any Baldurian balls, Astarion. Astarion: The city's elite was not my target audience, alas. People ask questions when members of the nobility disappear, and the last thing Cazador wanted was people asking questions.

---

Wyll: I'm feeling a bit parched and peckish. Astarion: Me too. Keep an eye out for any passing vagrants. Wyll: I'm afraid you'll have to content yourself with vagrant chickens.

---

Astarion (if player character): I know these cobbles well - the gate to the Upper City's just ahead. All that time and what's my legacy in Baldur's Gate? Missing friends and broken families. Wyll (also... if played??): You can't undo the past, Astarion. But you can craft a better future, if you so choose.

---

Astarion: Spent much time in the Underdark? Wyll (does not know Astarion is a vampire): I've slayed a death dog or six, crossed a few duergar. I never was scared of the shadows. Wyll (does not know Astarion is a vampire): Some. And you? Seems a perfect hunting ground for... you know. Astarion: Perfect? You try drinking an earth elemental's blood.

---

(more under cut)

Wyll: Astarion, how is the rat diet going? Astarion: It may soon come to an end if you don't shut your mouth.

---

Shadowheart: So, Astarion. Which of us would you rather feed on? If you had free rein? Astarion: Ah! Wyll. No question. He's strong, fast and righteous. I'm salivating already. Shadowheart: Hmm... interesting. Astarion: You sound disappointed. I'll bite you if you ask. Shadowheart: I'm sure you would. Don't sound so eager.

---

Wyll: Killed a few giant bats in my day, Astarion - but never hunted a vampire. Astarion: Just to remind you, I'm merely a spawn. It won't count. But if you want a true vampire, I'm happy to recommend one.

---

Wyll: The city fell under Gortash's charms without him casting nary a spell. Astarion: Well, most people are idiots, Wyll. You can lure them into a dragon's maw if you promise a bag of sweets. Wyll: The people aren't stupid, Astarion - they're scared. Gortash provoked a damned war, and then promised them safety. Astarion: Safety, sweets - it's the same principle.

---

Astarion: I used to be agog at everything when I first walked in the sun. Perhaps I'm adjusting to this new life. Wyll: It's when you use words like 'agog' that I remember you're actually two centuries old. Astarion: And it's when you think 'agog' is an impressive word that I remember you're just a child.

---

(This is ascended Astarion in a romance with player)

Wyll: The two of you are the unholiest union I can bloody imagine. Astarion: It's funny - I don't recall asking your opinion, Wyll. Wyll: You had the most precious thing - someone who would do everything for you - and you damn well took everything. 'Degenerate' doesn't half cut it.

---

Wyll: To think how vibrant this place must have once been. Children playing, merchants hawking. Real people living real lives. Astarion: I know, can you imagine the noise? This is much more peaceful. Wyll: Come, Astarion. I know you're not really as heartless as all that. Astarion: Of course not, I'm a pussycat really. Just ask anyone who's seen my claws.

(this is a dialogue for "CL_FishermansHut" which I am not sure what it is)

[wufflesvetinari]

'wyllstarion long engagement' for the ask game?

ewjrlkjewr GUYS........😂 now i really wish there was more in this document than a rough outline, damn. some of this was just plopped in-doc directly from my ramblings in the wyllstarion discord, so.

for @ushauz, @jellyfishline, @silverwhittlingknife, @acephalouscreature

wyllstarion long engagement is a nebulously-planned wyll POV fic in which spawnstarion completely fucks off after running from the sun at the docks. like, Does Not Even Leave A Note. at first.

it's yenna who passes wyll a half-understood message + a Meaningful Present from astarion (i have a yenna gen agenda, say it five times fast) implying that astarion is fine, he's okay, he just needs to be very far away from baldur's gate for an undetermined period of time. wyll pieces together that he's grieving the sun and also trying to figure out who he is without cazador's yoke. he seems to be putting deliberate space between himself and his companions as well

and wyll is a bit hurt because they had been Kind Of A Thing, in a nebulous and unspoken way without specific plans, but surely astarion understood wyll wanted to stay with him...? but then, within a couple of days, astarion sends word back via another gift. and he keeps on sending little things: little treasures from his travels, increasingly far off, referencing inside jokes they'd shared and things he's learned from wyll's stories about his childhood.

eventually even the method of receiving the gifts becomes exotic: once astarion is beyond the reach of sword coast courier services he's sending shit via like. messenger hawk. a tiny portal that shows up between two books on wyll's shelf, just big enough for a poem evidently torn from a rare volume by wyll's favorite poet--then crisply and fastidiously folded--to pass through. (what the fuck kind of circumstances required him to tear a page from a rare book? did he try to steal it and fail?? what??? these are the things wyll has to consider daily.)

eventually this expands to letter-writing. it feels like a continuation of their fragile courtship, but with some of the dynamic reversed, and it makes wyll miss him very badly while also feeling Known. BUT ALSO, IN WYLL-REPRESSION-LAND, wyll has his own shit going on and a part of him really wishes astarion had just stayed with him (wyll is grand duke here) or at least explained himself first. and he manages to suppress that bit until astarion gets home. Whereupon he suddenly finds that--even though he was genuinely loving those gifts and missing astarion very much and enjoying the sweetness of Courtship Part 2--he is suddenly mad at astarion. and they have to Talk, Finally

[ghost-proofbaby]

“By all means, sharpen your axe, dear,” his voice has dropped to a hush, and she feels a shiver run up her spine once she realizes just how close he is now. She hadn’t even noticed his hand creeping up between them until his fingertips were just barely brushing her throat. A hovering grasp, a mere breath away from wrapping around her, “And I’ll ready my hands.”

summary: aruna and astarion begin to have a few interesting conversations, but she can't seem to shake that part of her that craves to keep him close. the part of her desperate to convince her that she knows him.

wc: 5.1k+

warnings: continued memory loss, spoilers for the game (specifically for a conversation that you can have with astarion that isn't triggered by a cut scene or exclamation point lol), talk of hypothetical murder as flirting

a/n: possibly one of my favorite rewrites of a canon scene thus far. will always be mad we couldn't say 'strangulation' as how we want to go. but i digress. also to anyone who is unfamiliar with the game this might seem fast paced, but to anyone who has played the game, this is probably dragging. my bad. anyways, please enjoy <;3 and peep my nod of homage to the way i keep making bard tavs only to abandon them

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The tiefling, Zevlor, had proven to be an interesting conversation. 

He wants something in return for a favor. Of course he does. Aruna doesn’t even glance Astarion’s way, because she’s not in the mood to be told I told you so once it’s all said and done. She’d heard every huff and sigh from him as she’d talked to Zevlor, and she already knew he was less than impressed with how the conversation had gone. 

The grove is closing itself off. The refugees are at risk of being sent to their certain death. Zevlor wants them to speak to the druids. There’s a healer named Nettie who may be able to help them. 

There’s a healer named Nettie who may be able to help them.  

Aruna is an optimist, and chooses to focus on that bit rather than the performance she had put on back there. There’s hope yet – they just have to take the scenic route to get to their final destination. 

The group explores the grove a little bit, perusing several small booths that have been set up amongst the large caves. They all keep their distance, not yet deciding to approach any vendors, but Aruna still keeps a list in case they need resources: there’s a corner with a frail elderly lady who’s surrounded by tables littered with what Gale can identify as healing potions, beside her is a tiefling stirring some giant cauldron of what must be food as it smells delectable, and across from her is some sort of blacksmith who has a small shop set up with a depleted source of weapons and armor. All people who might be useful to speak to at some point.

But that’s for another day. The elderly lady piques Aruna’s interest for a moment, but Zevlor had said that Nettie could be found in the druid’s grove, and this was decidedly not the actual grove. 

Aruna watches Astarion like a hawk through all of it. And he knows that she’s watching him closely, because at some point he even teases her about it. 

“Say, shall I just creep over there and snatch one of those healing potions for myself, dear leader? I doubt the woman would notice it missing. I do have quite skilled hands.”

She’d nearly smacked him for the suggestion of theft, and he’d only cackled when she’d started to look around for any signs of guards that might have overheard his words. 

Just before they leave back to their camp for the day, for Aruna to mark this place on their map and begin to formulate some sort of plan for finding this Nettie come tomorrow, they find Wyll. Wyll, the human who had joined in the fight at the gate, tearing down goblins easily with eldritch blasts and the flourish of his rapier. 

He’s kind enough. Astarion is rolling his eyes when through that tadpole connection (which is once again, not as painful as it had been with the pale elf), a new quest is presented to them. Hunting a Devil with Wyll. Securing his companionship, increasing their numbers. It’s a small cost, Aruna decides, and she invites him back to camp without hesitation, fully agreeing they’d help him track down this Devil soon after speaking to this Nettie. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a bleeding heart?” 

Despite an additional body now joining them on their trek back to camp, Astarion still clings to Aruna’s side as she leads the group. 

“It’s not a bleeding heart,” she quips back, giving a quick glance to the map in her hands. Less for finding her way to camp, and more for engraving what she needs to draw out once they get back. “He has a tadpole. He needs us as much as we need him – the Devil will just be something to keep in mind.” 

“It’s a side quest, and side quests will sidetrack us,” Astarion points out as Aruna finally veers between trees, beginning to stumble into heavier bramble that they have to navigate in order to arrive at their clearing, “It’s going to take years for us rid ourselves of our little problems at this rate.”

Aruna rolls her eyes before stepping widely over a fallen log, “You’re being dramatic.” 

“Never denied having a love for the theater, darling,” Gods, his tongue is fast. Always equipped with a new comeback, always readied with a new nickname to make heat flash through her body. “My point is, we don’t have years. Time isn’t exactly on our side, if I’ve been listening to that wizard correctly.”

“Gale,” she corrects him absentmindedly, stopping for a second to gather their surroundings as well as allow the other three to catch up a little bit, “His name is Gale, and… and he’s right, I think. We should be weary of ceremorphosis.” 

Astarion waves off the reminder of Gale’s name as if he has no use of it. Which, at the rate in which he only seems keen on speaking to her, he might not. “We haven’t sprouted any tentacles yet. And our flesh has yet to melt off our faces, so to speak. However, I am curious as to what your plan is if any of that does start happening to one of us.” 

She starts to head west. Or at least, the direction she thinks is west.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that at the first sign of change, I’d have to stop that pretty little bleeding heart of yours.”

Aruna nearly trips over her own feet. 

Is he seriously threatening me right now? 

When she turns to look at him, though, he doesn’t look one bit as frightening as she had expected. His hands are far from his daggers, and she swears there’s a smile playing on the corners of his lips. 

“I am open to suggestions,” he presses on, meeting her gaze and leaning forward, the face of playfulness, “Knives, poison, strangulation – whatever you’d prefer.” 

He’s not going to kill her. There’s absolutely no way that there’s any weight to his words. If someone were going to choose to kill someone, they would not be indulging in this type of conversation with them, would they? 

She stares at him for a few moments, completely still and silent as she blinks slowly before finally saying, “You are odd.” 

It makes him laugh. A scoff that echoes through the trees around them as she starts to quicken her pace. Camp is near, the rest of their group isn’t far behind – he’s not going to kill her. She’s not worried about that, but she is worried for his sanity by thinking that this was small talk. 

“Humor me,” he calls after her. Even as her strides turn longer, he doesn’t struggle to keep up, “I deserve it after being on my best behavior at the grove.” 

She’d argue that he hadn’t been on his best behavior, but the more she gets to know him, the more she’s thinking that the way he had restrained himself today was him attempting to follow her rules. 

“I’m not sure,” she sighs, “How would you like to go?” 

Even in her peripherals, she can see him light up as he realizes she is actually humoring him. 

“I don’t think that poison is for me. Nor stabbing, come to think of it. I always felt decapitation was a fine choice. One good swing and then – nothing,” Gods, he’s thought about this quite sincerely, hasn’t he?  “But we were talking about you. What’ll it be?” 

Through the breaks in the trees ahead, she can see the camp. She could choose to ignore him, dart ahead and leave him behind without an answer. But for some reason, she found herself almost enjoying the conversation. There was something in his cadence, in the hand gestures she was only catching the tail end of. If she were going to question his sanity, she might as well also question her own, because she was actually entertaining what he was suggesting. 

“You said strangulation was an option?” she stops and turns to him, catching sight of just far ahead they’d gotten from the others. Probably for the best, given their current exchange. 

His grin widens. His eyes sparkle in the warmth of the setting sun. He’s beautiful enough to take her breath away if she’d let him. Literally, given what she’d just said to him. 

“Strangulation?” he parrots back. She’s taken him off guard, returning the favor of setting him off his kilter, “Can’t say that was the option I’d imagine you’d choose. It’s the least messy, of course, but you did strike me as someone who might prefer a classic knife.” 

“Or a goblin bow,” she says before she can even think of it. It rolls off the tongue easily, and the moment the words hang between them, they’re both smiling. She’s almost laughing, even.

Just hours before, she had almost met her very real and very timely death by the exact object of her joking. It hadn’t been a joke then – it had been a real fear, staring her right in the eyes as she had helplessly reached for daggers that she severely needed to grow more skilled with. 

And he had helped her. Saved her life, even. The exact opposite of the hypothetical they were posing to one another now. 

“Or… that,” he’s so close to being at a loss for words, she’s nearly proud of herself, “But this is all hypothetical, of course. I’m sure tomorrow we’ll find this Nettie and there will be no need for any gore.”

“Or we won’t,” she can hear the footsteps of the others now, not far off, but she’s in too deep to not finish Astarion at his own game, “And I’ll just have to sharpen my axe.” 

He takes a step closer to her, lips still curled. She’s glad she’s humored him – glad she can make him smile, make him laugh, even with such morbid conversations. They deserve a little bit of that joy, even if it comes by odd means. 

“By all means, sharpen your axe, dear,” his voice has dropped to a hush, and she feels a shiver run up her spine once she realizes just how close he is now. She hadn’t even noticed his hand creeping up between them until his fingertips were just barely brushing her throat. A hovering grasp, a mere breath away from wrapping around her, “And I’ll ready my hands.” 

Something inside of her sparks. Yearns, weeps, lashes out as his hand drops just before the other three join them. It wasn’t just his velvet voice or the brush of his breath against her cheek, it wasn’t just the alarming temperature of his hand and the way her body reacted to the mere thought of him putting it on her – it was a strange need for closeness. As if he had belonged there, pressed right against her, staring right into her eyes until she’d grown nervous that he could see straight to all the memories she couldn’t unlock quite yet. 

“Interrupting something?” Gale asks, oblivious, once the rest of the group has caught up to the pair. Astarion had moved away at just the right moment; just close enough for them to see they’d been talking about something, but not to catch that innocent movement of his hand that had sent Aruna into a tailspin. 

It had felt right. 

For a moment, his skin had been on hers, and everything fell into place. As if she didn’t have a brain riddled with holes. As if she hadn’t had to learn her name from some letter. As if she’d known Astarion for two hundred years, not a petty two days. The buzz of the frustration she has battled with since waking on that beach had simply quieted by her space being invaded by him.

She wants him close again. She wants to feel it again. 

Instead, she only lies to Gale, shakes her head and pretends like there had never been anything to interrupt. Acts as if her whole mind and soul are there with the rest of them, not lingering on that blip of a moment, stuck in a capsule of time in which Astarion had somehow made her feel whole again. She hadn’t even remembered a damn thing from her past – not a single vision, not a single thought of something as trivial as to what her favorite color might have been before the tadpole – but none of that mattered with the distraction of his presence. 

They carry on into camp. She knows she has an endless list of simple tasks to complete before she can fully rest for the night: she needs to speak with Lae’zel, she needs to help Gale ration out their supplies for dinner for the next few nights, she needs to update the map, she needs to curate a plan for the next day. 

She does none of the above. 

Some pathetic excuse is mumbled out between her lips in a voice she can’t even recognize as her own, claiming she’ll go gather some mushrooms or pick some berries for Gale to utilize for tonight’s feast. And no one stops her as she departs from camp, not even the pale elf who hovers by the fire Wyll begins to build, eyes locked on her in curiosity she doesn’t witness. 

He was right. Her heart is bleeding, a gaping wound in the center of it that gushes with every beating of her pulse. But for which it bleeds, she isn’t so sure.

Not quite the tieflings they met today and offered to help. Not quite the companions she’s offered to embark on personal journeys with. 

No, Aruna’s heart is bleeding, and she’s starting to suspect that it all begins and ends with the garnet eyes she feels on her long after she’s departed back into the trees.

—

“And I thought I was going to be the broody one of the camp.” 

Astarion’s voice should startle her, especially considering it comes from behind her in the woods rather than him approaching her from the rocks leading up to her perch, but it doesn’t. No surprise, no annoyance, no irritation – all she really feels is a deepening of a gaping hole inside of her that hasn’t subsided since her tadpole first connected with his. 

Upon her arrival back to camp, she’d handed over a pitiful handful of berries and a small bouquet of mushrooms to Gale, and had immediately retreated. She wasn’t in a talkative mood; she’d glanced around for somewhere to hideaway, and had landed on the small lookout atop a stone cliff not far from where Lae’zel had set up a tent. 

Most of her companions had set up tents. Where they’d gotten them from, she has no idea. But each one has found a corner to call their own in the camp, creating almost homey environments, except her. 

Her, and Astarion. 

She tilts her head ever so slightly as she shakes it, a small tsk falling from her lips, “Nope. I’m afraid that title has already been taken, my friend.” 

His footsteps are light as he approaches her side, hesitating before he awkwardly lowers himself onto the ground beside her. She’d offer up space on her rock, but her body was heavier than even the stone below her, and she couldn’t find it in herself to make any movement. 

They’re just out of sight from the rest of the camp. A thinner grouping of trees offers minimal coverage, a large boulder her current seat. She could easily walk out onto the stone ledge and expose herself, but she was already feeling a little too seen for the night. 

Has anyone ever told you that you have a bleeding heart?

She wonders if someone had, before all this mess, from a time she can’t recall. 

“Friend,”  he echoes her. His tone isn’t condescending, but rather curious, “I’m not sure I’ve ever-”

And then he cuts himself off, as though he’s caught himself in the act of opening up. He looks as if he hadn’t been in control for a few moments.

That draws in her curiosity well enough. She thought she had been burnt out for the day, beyond the capability to hold conversation, but he’s drawing her into it easily. Like a moth to his flame, like a moon stuck in his orbit. 

“Well? Don’t hold out on me now. I’m absolutely on the edge of my seat,” she only sinks into a more comfortable position to add humor to her words, “Let me guess. You never would have called someone such as myself a friend before all this. I understand if that’s the case-”

“I’ve never called someone a friend, period,” he interrupts. He says it all in one breath, and when she looks down at his face, nearly hidden by the shadows, it looks absolutely petrified. As if he can’t believe he’s just said that outloud. As if his mouth had moved without permission in order to spill the words out for her. 

The soft ‘oh’ that leaves her is completely involuntary. She isn’t sure how to respond to that – that level of vulnerability, the kind that is making him shrink under her gaze and curl his lips in disgust at himself. It’s not the kind of thing you’d reveal to a stranger. 

But Astarion feels like anything but a stranger, fight it as she might try. 

“If it would make you more comfortable,” she starts, and his head whips up to look at her in alarm, “I could always refer to you as an enemy instead.” 

When he laughs, it’s a symphony. She wishes she were lying, but the music of his joy fills her with an indescribable light, as though she might have just swallowed the sun whole. It warms every joint, every crevice, every shadow she has within her. For just a moment, all the monsters within her are quiet once again, content to sit and simply listen to him with a smile. 

It makes her want to run. It makes her breath catch, and a certain resentment begins to build against the way he can have this effect on her so effortlessly. It’s the same gut reaction as she’d had on the beach when Gale had also laughed for her, but more. 

It’s better than hearing Gale laugh. So, so much better.

Would it be better to not fight this wonderful blanket of deja vu? If she just loosened her fists, unclenched her jaw, she could let it anchor her easily in an almost comforting manner. Even after the echoes of his amusement had long faded, it whispers to her in the dark. 

She’s terrified of the way it feels; it feels as though she’s spent countless nights listening to that laugh. By a campfire, in dark tents, in shared beds. She’s heard it withheld with constraint, free without care, hushed for the sake of others – for a moment, she swears, she knows Astarion’s laugh like the back of her hand. And that, that indescribable feeling, is what stokes all her fear. 

“You know, perhaps you’re a bard,” he jokes once he’s calmed down, waving a hand through the air without purpose. 

“Ah,” her smile she hadn’t even noticed finally falters, remembering what had happened outside of the Grove. She needed to speak with Gale, as well. She’d just add it to the list. After another moment, she swears to herself that she’ll see to doing all that she must before retiring for the night, “So I see you’ve heard of my little identity crisis.” 

He tilts his head back to look at her fully, and she’s moments away from genuinely offering to share her boulder as a seat.

As if to stop herself, she makes another bad joke. Maybe he’ll laugh, and she��ll have no room to say something stupid, like offering him a seat next to her. Letting him close to her again. “Gale is a terrible keeper of secrets – noted.” 

There’s still ghosts of giggles on his lips as he sighs, pressing two hands into the dirt behind him and leaning his body into a reclined position. 

“Not entirely. Less that he’s terrible at keeping secrets, and more that I’m particularly skilled at learning them. Ask anyone the right questions, and their pretty tongues will always sing.” 

He rolls his ‘r’ when he says pretty, and that gaping hole nearly enlarges itself enough to swallow her up.  

This surely isn’t how their nights are supposed to go. They’re strangers. Surely, surely, they should be more guarded. Less jokes, more awkward silences. Less revealing of who they really are, and more false pretenses to cover up the truth.

The quiet is nice. It’s exactly what she had been seeking out when she’d sulked away from the others for a moment to herself, and Astarion neither adds nor takes away from the tranquility. He’s just there. If she tilts her head just right, leans back to an even more horizontal angle, he’d leave her line of sight entirely. 

She doesn’t. She keeps him there, safe in her peripherals, no longer trying to unknot all her emotions that draw her to him. She knows the letter still waits for her in her pack, and there are conversations to be had, responsibilities for her to shoulder. But for a brief moment, it’s just them – it’s just Aruna, and it’s just Astarion. Two unfortunate souls stuck with tadpoles in their brain, and now each other. No more, no less.

The moment passes eventually. 

“Do you truly believe I’m a bard?”

She isn’t sure why she asks that. But she’s handed over her trust to him freely thus far, a few more inches can’t hurt. 

“Hm?” he hums, rolling his head on his shoulders, a tension under the surface she only sees glimpses of in the moonlight, “Oh, who’s to say? I’m not all that well-versed in magic, being a-”

“Wait, don’t tell me,” she stops him quickly, scooting to the edge of her boulder, ankles now swinging dangerously close to him.

He peers up at her curiously, brow furrowed, “Don’t tell you… what? That I’m a-”

“Let me guess,” she nearly begs. 

The last three days have felt anything but normal. Tadpoles, mysterious letters, lost memories. Guessing someone’s class just felt normal. She needed normal, if only for a moment. 

“By all means,” he lifts a hand, flourishing it in invitation, “Be my guest.”

She presses her elbows into the tops of her thighs, studying him intensely as her fists squish her cheeks. And he lets her – he even tilts his head back to the sky, clearly putting on a show as her eyes scan him intensely. He’s used to it. He’s used to being the center of attention, of being something pretty to gawk at. He slips into the role far too easily to not be accustomed to such. 

The longer she looks at him, the more she notices. 

The surface level is what she drinks in first. Soft, white curls that nearly glow under streams from the moon. Lashes so long that they brush the porcelain skin of his under eyes. Perfectly pointed ears. And a perfectly sloped nose, albeit a little crooked if she were to scrutinize it too long from the side. Somewhere along the ridge, it’s almost as though he’s experienced a break that never quite healed right. Laugh lines that dig in deeply to his cheeks, but that almost fade from existence when his face goes as slack as it is currently. He’s not a young boy, not by any means, but there’s a certain youth to him in this state that could break her heart if she tried to contort it into a perfect metaphor. He’s a devastatingly beautiful stranger. His confidence is well earned.

But his confidence is only the surface of it all. Once she scratches past the way he doesn’t seem to falter under her careful observation, the layers practically reveal themselves. He appears relaxed, she’s been under the assumption that he’s been relaxed this entire conversation, but as she lets her eyes fall to his shoulders, she sees a tenseness that she hadn’t noticed before. One that can’t be brushed off by his current position or the weight his palms are balancing. His neck rolls with it, and she gets the smallest glimpse of his neck beneath the high-neck of his collared shirt – a scar. It flashes for only a second, giving her no time to know exactly the shape nor circumstance, but it’s there. An imperfection. A spanse of skin on him that holds a story she certainly won’t get out of him tonight, not when his shoulders still nearly tremble with that tenseness. 

He’s not a damsel in distress. She doesn’t know why the letter insists that she save him. 

“Well,” his voice finally startles her, breaking her from her trance, “Are you going to gawk all night at my ethereal beauty, or are you going to guess my class, young bard?” 

She’s decidedly not a bard. She knows it the moment he properly refers to her as such. Really, she has no idea what a bard is, but she almost wishes she was if only to let him be right. 

“I only know the few classes that Gale has mentioned in passing,” she admits into the night quietly, her voice a whisper. 

His eyes flutter open at that. Gorgeous, piercing red.

“And which ones are those?” 

She knows now that he’s wearing a mask. Maybe not a heavy one, maybe not a thick one, but he’s wearing one all the same. If she were more clever, she’d put on one herself. Simply for protection. A shield for whatever game the two of them were playing at. 

And yet, she can’t seem to find the mind to dig through her arsenal and mirror him in defenses. 

Instead, she prattles off the list Gale had rambled on about to her. Sorcerers, wizards, warlocks, druids, clerics. He’d mentioned paladins in passing, but never elaborated. Really, he hadn’t properly elaborated on any of them. He’d simply reassured her again that he had books for her to read back at camp. 

None of those books were in her hands, at the time being. All she had right now was Astarion. And surprisingly, he appeared to be feeling particularly helpful. 

“I see,” he nods, looking out over the camp. Gale begins cooking for all of them, Wyll rests by the fire, and the other two women of the camp are nowhere to be seen. In their tents, presumably, “Well, I can tell you that I am none of those. I don’t wield quite as much magic as those who are.”

“Quite as much?” she mimics back, a smile creeping up on her lips, “Are you insinuating that you do hold some?”

He chuckles in response, “Of course I do. You aren’t this beautiful and intriguing without having a little bit of magic, dear.” 

Something flashes in his eyes when he takes on that tone with her. A faint taunting, a gentle flirtation. But when she looks in his eyes, they’ve lost some of their glimmer. His words are playful enough, but the feeling doesn’t extend beyond his voice. 

She wants to poke and prod, pry till her fingers bleed and he’s cursing her name. Because she knows he would. If his little slip ups just in this conversation and his reactions to them are any indicator, Astarion hates nothing more than to offer up any vulnerability. And yet, for her, he already had. 

He’s admitted that he’s never had a friend before. It’s a small detail, petty in nature, but it is a stepping stone nonetheless. 

Tonight’s not the night. There will be other nights to spill the blood of honesty. 

“Oh, of course. My mistake,” she plays along, feeds into his act. The insatiable animal inside of her prefers his company, after all. His simple presence is a soothing balm she can’t quite place, and she’ll do anything to drag out their time, “I’ll keep that in mind during my studies with Gale.”

Speaking of the wizard, she catches the tail end of a cautionary glance from him, his head whipping away from the direction of herself and Astarion. Whatever he’s managed to scrounge for dinner is done, plated to the best of his abilities as Shadowheart crosses camp to join him.

They’ll have to join them soon enough. 

As soon as she realizes this, she has another realization, looking down to find Astarion watching a nearby tree with vexed interest, “We’re going to act like this conversation never happened come morning, aren’t we?” 

We’re going to pretend like you never opened up for a fraction of a second. Like I didn’t let my guard down as well. Like we didn’t sit in the forest like two well-acquainted souls, protected by the moonlight as we shared laughter and a kinship forgotten. 

We’re going to pretend like the thing ripping apart my chest doesn’t know you, somehow, someway. 

“I suppose so.” 

She hops down from the boulder, keeping her balance easily as she turns to offer him a hand. But he’s already standing back up, completely ignoring her offer as he brushes away the dirt on his legs and palms. 

She swallows hard, nods slowly. “That’s fair, I suppose.” 

It was nice while it lasted. 

Even after the dust has long since been discarded off his body, he makes no move to walk down the slope of the miniature cliff and rejoin the other companions. He’s waiting – waiting for her to take the lead. Just as the others had during their travels thus far. 

She’s selfish. So, so ardently selfish. But before they leave this space, before they abandon the serene moment they’d been granted, she has to learn one last thing about him. If nothing else, she’d like to say she knows the very basics of who he is. 

His name, the fact that he’s never been privy to friendship before, that he is a very guarded individual with a superior skill at hiding that mask, and whatever his class is. 

And that she has to ‘save him’. Apparently. Allegedly. 

“What is your class?” she asks, voice steady and head held high as she only looks at him. She doesn’t care if Gale spares them any more side glances. 

His head tilts curiously towards her, “What? Giving up so quickly?” 

“Well, if we’re to pretend this conversation never happened, then-”

“I’ll tell you what… bard,” he starts, but when she shakes her head, he’s quick to correct himself, “Or… not bard? Regardless. Once you’ve figured out your own class, see if you can then figure out my class, hm? Read those dreadful books our camp cook has assigned to you, and then get back to me.” 

She knows what that is.

It’s more than playful banter. More than him hiding away secrets.

They won’t be pretending that this night never happened – not even close.

taglist:

@emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson

[bluerose5]

I just realized that if you did a BG3/DAO crossover right after DAO, that would make Zevran the youngest party member in BG (he’d be 23) especially by elven standards… I don’t know what to do with this information, but here it is

Unrelated, in your Fenris+Zevran in Faerûn, does that happen from the end of Act 3 DA2 or earlier? Because I imagine Act3 Fenris would act very differently to Astarion than Act1 Fenris.

I believe there was a recent post about Zevran going around. The whole "he should be at the club!" In that case, him, Lae'zel, and Wyll should all be at the club together!

But yeah, personally, I go with these crossovers all take place around DAI timeline even if the characters aren't involved in the actual events of DAI. Inquisition actually has a lot of elements to play with in my opinion that can explain such a huge leap between realms. Rift magic. Time magic. You name it. For Anders, I use the explosion at the Conclave in his story.

I also use DAI timeline for the exact reason you mention. The Origins and DA2 crew have already undergone their respective journeys and growth by then. They can always learn more, yes, but they're more settled in who they are by then. In the example you give, Fenris is no longer in survivor/fight-or-flight mode as much as his Act 1 counterpart. At the point of DAI, if that was the ending the player chose, he could have fought alongside Hawke to defend the mages by then. I don't see him handing out hugs first thing to the BG3 crew by any means, but I can see him being more open overall, especially when he learns that the risk of possession is not as much of a concern in Faerûn as it is in Thedas since their magic doesn't work quite the same. Spellcasters are still dangerous in his eyes, but I feel like that alone would be a big relief, especially with magic being so prevalent.

[limpfisted]

@silksworn [ YOU ARE SOPPING WET IN A CARDBOARD BOX ALL ALONE, A MOUND AND A BLOB OF WET SHAPEABLE FEELINGS AND FLESH, AND I AM SO WRONG, BUT SO RIGHTEOUS, TO MEET SUCH A NOBLE VICTIM. THE AUTUMN BALL. ]

Iraestra may be just as prickly as the others----but Wyll gets along well enough with them, just fine. There is something to be said about a warrior's bond. Don't think he didn't notice her take his hand in the battle against Ketheric and bring him to his feet. Don't think he didn't notice the true passion and fire in her eyes----when she struck down Mykrul as if he was made of glass and not bone.

It is not that Wyll does not see that she is selfish, and unkind, and that she has rolled her eyes at him at every attempt of his own selflessness and kindness, but that, well... he sees the atrocities, and is pretending he can fix her, or that The Absolute is their truest issue, or that as long as she doesn't hurt anyone in front of him---he can rest easy knowing its not his fault, or he can watch her like a hawk and make sure she doesn't hurt anyone, and grow gradually to trust her as much as he thinks she's cool, just charismatic, intelligent, interesting, in ways some of the other party members fail to be. (He has average wisdom, for a human, and that means he can justify anything, reasoning it out in such logical tangles he can mystify himself with his own made-up mythos.)

She is something new, something shiny, proof that what they are doing---fighting against the Absolute, is just, even beyond the obvious.

And perhaps, perhaps, there is a part of him that wants her to smile at him, laugh at his jokes, for his own amusement. Can they not be friends? Can they not acknowledge him each other's humanity?

And she looks beautiful in the fae realm at this Autumn's Ball. Really, just dashing. This is the perfect chance to get closer to her. To get to know her. To show her he can fix her, make her better, rescue her---a damsel in distress.

And the night is young. And the night is just as dark and beautiful as she is, and just as full of secrets, and in Wyll's eyes... potential promise.

"Dance with me? Just one dance. I fear you are the only one who can match me beat for beat." The flames in his eye twinkle, as if kissed by starlight instead of Hellfire. "Please? Allow for this Devil's pact: You dance with me, I grant you one boon later. Anything you wish."

A dangerous, stupid thing to say. But he's hungry, to chew on her feelings, to forge a new, intimate connection that he can control and fantasize himself the hero in.

Wyll Ravengard is kind, but even the selfless can be a little too self-indulgent to speak their true fantasies out loud.

Acknowledgement of her humanity, indeed.

[shadowofroses]

Baldur's Gate 3 AU where Your Blurbos get abducted by Mindflayers so instead of Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Laezel, Wyll etc (I can't remember all of the ones I Think that was the main ones that had the tadpole) Would be different per person OF COURSE

(My version) You get Vash, Gojo, Sanemi, Kyoujurou, Hawks. and they get taken Mid fight somewhere, like turning point in the series.

And you're just standing there like 🧍🏽‍♀️"Hi" And it's a complete Isekai for all those involved only Like you and Gojo are like "OMG BIG FAN" to the others who are confused And Gojo turns to you like "What anime are you from?"

"I'm not but OMG BIG FAN!" just to turn it sassily on him. And he is just like 🧍‍♂️ "wat?"

And since the game came out AFTER the JJK series you have to explain everything and Sanemi is just horrified there is a tadpole in his brain like me too bestie. He just wants at the Mindflayers but now we have Vash who is a Pacifist and is trying to calm people down from trying to kill Mindflayers.

And you're just 'Welp....Lets not let the Demon Slayer guys know that there are Demons...kind of.....Just not what they know of...'

Then again multiple Blurbos maybe too overwhelming.

Cause I kept forgetting that BG3 is like....a great Isekai type thing. And So is Genshin Impact for a starting point. and Kingdom Hearts.

Especially when it comes to the End with Raphael Cause I'm PRETTY damn sure He indicated that our world (reality) was technically in that BG Universe.

[awellboiledicicle]

I feel like the "everyone has a fever and aches" night you get post-grove situation ends out fine overall for Hawke and co, but Anders and Halsin were the two non-worm individuals in camp going "do we have the power to fight that many mindflayers? no. Do we have the power to kill ailing people mid-transformation? Yes, that we can do."

But like they wouldn't want to pull the trigger on that option until the bleeding started, because like you can tell Lae'zel-- maybe everyone just got sick. You all eat the same food, sans Astarion, but even he probably still drinks water now and then and you all get yours out the same river.

And all this is fine, because it passes.

But all i can imagine is Anders and Halsin not sleeping, pacing around the camp all night, changing rags off foreheads, leaving water by beds and covering the people who kicked off their blankets and are now curled up shivering. They all went to bed with the clear understanding that what must be done will be, if they change.

Hawke faces it with a sort of grim finality. I hc that Malcolm died of some kind of illness, so Hawke is just sitting there pondering if its the worm or if some things run in the family. Silly, really, because it's far more likely that fighting a giant spider spitting acidic venom at them just fucked everyone up a bit. His stomach lurches and he tries to focus on staying himself, just in case that helps. Foggy memories of his family drift through his head. Lothering, a dozen no name villages across Fereldan. Kirkwall. The unofficial temporary homes he and Anders would set up while on the run, be it in caves or clearings or abandoned homes they could pretend were theirs in a pinch. Thinks about his friends and worries if they're alright. Worries about Anders, if this really is it. The sweat is coming so thick by the time he drops into sleep that his hair is slick. Anders has to keep himself from centering around him, specifically, especially with the others to care for as well. Halsin has to take over while the healer fetches yet more water from the river, though he lingers just long enough to squeeze Hawke's hand.

Lae'zel is surprisingly calm when they tend to her, teeth bared while she rides through another wave of nausea. She seems to be doing it in her sleep, hands curled into fists as her muscles jump and sweat pools. She had forgone her usual clothes in favor of simple undergarments, hissing an insistence that the less material between blade and her body would be a boon when the time came. The way her body shuddered, however, Anders had a sneaking suspicion that it was her way of staying relatively cool in the face of her body turning on her. Either way, she greedily clung to the blanket Halsin laid over her as nights chill set in.

Wyll lies curled on his side, horns scratching furrows in the dirt through his bedroll. His blanket is soaked through and his breathing comes in short, labored, panting. He took the longest to fall asleep, insisting the ache made his scars thrum and his false eye feel even more foreign than usual.

Karlach had to be doused in water on a few occasions through the night, between her engine and her temperature she was fairly steaming by the time she drifted off. Her bedroll's base survived entirely through how soaked it had become.

Shadowheart muttered half tracked prayers and curled with her knees to her chest. Her hands shook as she prepared for bed, and she nearly told the two off for attempting to give her a cool towel for relief. Something about this pain being a service to lady Shar, how she would overcome it as proof of her devotion, before silently passing into sleep.

Astarion was the most trouble, if only because he insisted that the only way he could feel better was to either have blood or trance in the river directly. It was, after all, not like he was used to something approaching living temperatures ripping through his flesh after 200 years of cold undeath. When the worst of the pains started, he allowed the two to get close enough to leave things by his bedroll-- trying to touch him was met with a near feral hiss and a swipe of his nails. He crawled a good ways before stumbling to his feet and making it to bed and collapsing in it. The noises he made as he dropped into a deep trance were... worrying.

Gale, meanwhile, was the one they had to actually fight to keep in camp. Not because he WANTED to leave, but because he was convinced he had to. He was slow and deliberate as he insisted that, if the fever did not break, he needed to be taken to the Whispering Depths and thrown into the abyss below it. He didn't know if that would be enough distance to spare the Grove, or even most of the coast from the orb, but it would be a better try than having it happen out on the surface. He made them promise, with all the specific slowness of pronouncing an incantation, to do so if the symptoms progressed and to not just slit his throat. It was paramount. They agreed, naturally, though Halsin internally wasn't thrilled with the uncertainty involved.

Then, around midnight, the sounds of fevered thrashing and labored breathing quieted. Smoothed into the sounds of restful slumber. This was somehow almost as worrying as the sounds. A quick check showed no bleeding noses or mouths, nor tentacles bursting from jaws. The night passed, then, like the last week or so had-- calmly, until sunrise.

One at a time they woke and made their way about dealing with the residue of sweat and dirt from thrashing. Hawke clung to Anders the second he clapped eyes on the tired healer, popping his back in a powerful hug.

"As much as i needed that to go back in, air, love--" Anders gave his shoulder a pat and pressed a kiss to his sweat sticky forehead as he loosened his grip. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I just compressed every infection i'd ever had into one night of feeling fucking awful. But," He grinned and kissed Anders on the cheek, their stubble scraping together. Anders snickered and playfully batted at his chest. "My beloved healer kept me alive, yet again."

"I can't take all the credit, but i'm going to." With a wry smirk, he shook his head and pushed Hawke toward the river. "Now go get cleaned up. You smell like my clinic."

"Here I thought you liked my smell--" Hawke was purposely dragging his feet as they approached the water, largely to be an ass. "And besides, the water's going to be cold."

"You poor thing, how will you survive."

"Probably with someone to help keep me warm?"

"Not while everyone else is here, love." A final push before crossing his arms and nodding toward the water. "We can regroup after."

"Come on, keep me company?" Hawke shot him a pleading look while he started undoing the laces on his shirt. He removed it and paused, idly folding it while his face crumpled in thought. "Besides, I had a particularly strange dream that I wanted your thoughts on."

With a sigh, Anders settled on a rock at the bank and held out a hand for the shirt. Passing it over and starting on the rest of his clothes, he hummed. Though Anders did feel cheeky enough to give him a flick across the rear with his pants once passed over.

"Hey, now, what about not while other are in earshot?" Hawke quickly retreated into the water and suppressed the full body shudder in favor of scrubbing at his face.

"I'm innocent of all wrongdoing." He deadpanned, folding the pants on his lap and leaning on them. He'd have to fetch something clean for his dear husband in a moment, but he was rather curious about this dream. Hawke was never great about sharing whatever popped into his head in the Fade, and he couldn't imagine that had changed now. He watched his lover scrub for a bit before asking. "So, you had a dream?"

"Yes, about the worms." Hawke rubbed at his chest, the hair having matted a bit with sweat. He'd worry about the knots later, he supposed, and focused on scrubbing. "Someone that looked... almost exactly like you showed up and insisted I was... changing. Only, he didn't have that scar on your cheek from the expedition and when his eyes glowed, there wasn't any of Justice's fire. Just... magic, i suppose."

"Did this visitor offer you anything?" Anders chewed idly at his thumbnail and squinted. He didn't think there would be demons cropping up to tempt them, but it also wasn't as if he'd been dreaming of anything but Justice and nightmares lately. "Power, things like that?"

"If it was a demon," Hawke drawled, sinking down deeper into the river and thinking. "It was doing a very bad job. It said not to give into the worm, but take advantage of it. Learn how to use it's power. Kirkwall demons had much better sales pitches."

"It was a more competitive market in Thedas." Anders sighed with a frown. "Though I hardly need to tell you to dismiss it out of hand, correct?"

"No, love, I was going to believe the worm vision and perhaps eat another one. Just see how that goes for me." They shared a look before Hawke snorted and shook his head in the face of Anders' scowl. "You don't, no. Though once i'm done here, we should probably check in on the others. See if their worms have turned, as it were."

"We can ask while i'm doing check ups, once you get done." Anders looked deeply amused for a moment, glancing between the clothes and where Hawke stood. "Suppose i should be a good husband and get you something that doesn't smell, hm?"

"I mean, i'd appreciate that. Unless you want me to wander through camp naked."

"As much as I'd enjoy that, let's not give Gale another reason to have his concentration tested."

"Aw. Well, if i have to behave... Go on." Hawke flicked a little water toward him. "Please."

Anders going and getting him clothes did not stop Gale from going to the river a little ways downstream, getting half undressed and glancing over just in time to see Hawke wave at him. He most definitely did not hide behind some reeds like a blushing teenager and sneak a peak around like a much bolder younger man. His ability to remain calm was being tested and he was failing. But he was alive to keep trying to keep focused, so that's a win.

Meanwhile Scratch is just like "oh gods are my people ok, oh no oh gods" and has to get all the good boy pets.

[gelican-gelicant]

Chapter 2: Mirrors

Aysla wakes up with nine bottles remaining. Two was just enough to grant her the brief respite of an hour or two of dreamless sleep before her heart rate begins to pick up, and her palms begin to sweat. She'll take the broken rest over the visions, though. When she's sober, her dreams are vivid and frequent, and she dreads their assured return as she brings her bender to a reluctant end.

In the wee hours of the morning, she stares at the stars, willing her chattering bones to calm their shaking. Bolting to the edge of camp, bottle in hand, she wretches. Nothing in her stomach to hawk up but air, she clutches at her gut weakly until the heaving stops.

She takes a few measured swigs. What a way to start the day. Just enough to stave off worst of the tremors, but not enough to get her good and drunk. She's tapered off before, but she always forgot how god-awful it is.

All her companions are asleep, but one. Astarion leans on a tree off to the edge of her camp, watching her as she rises.

“Good morning. How is our charming resident inebriate? Rising bright and early to greet the day?”

She smiles dryly back at him, amused.

“One could use a drop of my blood as a fire starter right about now - so, more sober than I’d like,” she replies archly.

Astarion thinks he could use her blood for something else, but he keeps it to himself.

“How do you do it, if you don’t mind me asking?” he inquires curiously. “I’ve seen that particular brand of hooch knockout grown men three times your weight - but you seem thirstier than ever.”

“Impressed or disgusted?” she retorts. “You gain a tolerance - it would take a barrel full of whiskey to even get me buzzed.”

“Hmm. I’m sure our little group will thank you for reducing all your barrel-consuming for our benefit - and probably your liver, too,” he says lightly.

He slithers away without an explanation - to clear his mind perhaps? In the forest, in middle of the night? Aysla notes that he didn't pry, so she won't either. She takes one more swig before going to wash up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

First to rise, Astarion, Aysla, and Lae’zel spend the morning looting through an abandoned village in which they find, among other respective treasures and trinkets, enough swill to last Aysla the rest of her taper-down. 

Her rapier bobs at her hip, covered in goblin gore. 

They're joined by a muscle-bound Tiefling woman that they picked up along the way. She has a jolly disposition and a hot temper, and they collectively decide that she's too charming to be as bad as the Karlach of Avernus that Wyll describes. 

Marching back to camp, Aysla shaky fingers itch for more fighting. The midst of battle is the only place where the curl of cruelty in her heart gets some air, and she almost doesn't notice her cold sweat and her weak nerves. Her heart rate is vital, rather than light and fast like a hummingbird's, if only for a few moments.

She catches a few glances from Lae'zel, who looks like she may finally be beginning to appreciate Aysla's presence as an asset rather than a sloshing burden.

Hiking back to camp is slowed down, bedraggled by heavy bundles of loot as they are. Aysla shuffles through her miscellaneous spoils: a silver ring that doesn't fit her, some boots that seem to glow, and a pretty, decorative handheld mirror. Her hand lightly shakes as she holds up the trinket admiringly, checking her face.

"Find anything good?" she says, to no one in particular. Karlach and Astarion walk on either side of her.

"Nothing to write home about, soldier,” Karlach responds. “What've you got there?"

"Cute, right?" she muses.

She holds up the embellished mirror and examines her reflection. The light yellow-green of her eyes like dying grass looks extra pale against the dark circles settled around them. She smiles at herself for a flash, and it looks more like a grimace. 

Aysla is small and striking, alluring when she tries to be, though her smile has a trace of meanness, the hint of an inside joke she shares with no one but herself. Her body language reads as sardonic and cavalier, but if you stare long enough you'd notice flickers of something more tragic in her edges, constantly shaking and over-tense. Her swagger comes off defiant against the backdrop of her anaemic coloring, toxic and pretty like a poisonous flower. She looks like she might have been beautiful once, if not for being so constantly over-"watered" and underfed, rather than the haunting look she possesses now; magnetic but edgy, like the pieces of a shattered doll glued back together haphazardly, its sharp corners turned porcelain razors.

That’s what Astarion is noticing, as Aysla primps. What he doesn’t notice is how the mirror is angled towards him, revealing his lack of a reflection.

She’s planning the little jest she’ll offer him - ‘oh look, it’s the second most good-looking person in camp, ’ or something - when her eyes widen. She angles the mirror back and forth, seeing Karlach to one side, and an empty space on her other where Astarion is meant to be.

"Oh, it’s nice!" Karlach says.

Aysla smiles at Karlach. Once the tiefling turns away, she taps Astarion’s elbow. She squints at him, feeling stupid. She thinks she can make out two little scars, peeking up from under his collar.

“Can I help you?” he scoffs.

Then, she holds up the mirror once more, looking at him with raised eyebrows. His mouth purses and shock and fear flash in his eyes, but he says nothing with Lae'zel and Karlach still within earshot.

Aysla raises her hands and keeps walking, a gesture of "not my business." She can see his jaw twitching even in her peripheral vision and the tension rolling off of him in waves.

What will she do? he wonders. Stake me? Snitch?

His mind is flashing through scenarios when a strange, probing sensation breaks his focus.

Testing, testing, she says through their tadpoles’ link.

Message received, he answers back.

Don't worry, I can keep a secret, she says. You’re tensing so hard you’re going to burst a vein - oh, wait, do vampires even have veins -

I’d appreciate it if you did, he says.

She nods and almost moves on, but her boredom and curiosity wins out.

No reflection, huh? she asks.

He doesn’t respond, just looks at her drolly as if to say "duh."

Do you want a peek?

His brow knits - it hadn't occurred to him. He nods.

Her view plays in his mind in real time. He's jarred by the familiar yet strange image of his own lithe figure walking, graceful and suave. He recognizes the silver hair coiffed effortlessly sit like an angelic crown atop his head - nice to know that hasn't changed. He's pleased at the image he sees. Broad shoulders and lean limbs, goblin-blood-spattered as they are, beautiful and dangerous. He turns to better inspect his own face. Full, soft and cruel-looking lips and twinkling red eyes; yikes, very red indeed. Overall, a face that is charming enough to make someone's knees wobble. Or, are those her knees? Is it her heart that pitter patters a little faster, as she looks at him?

He realizes she’s grinning at him wickedly when the image fades away.

Not wanting to waste the joke she had cooked up earlier, she projects it now.

Don’t look so shocked - you’re still only the second hottest person in camp, she sends, still smirking.

Right - Karlach was a fine addition, he teases back, smiling widely. Is that why you’ve decided to be such a good little keeper of secrets? I can't blame you - I think I’d swoon for me, too.

She ends the connection then, with a playful gasp.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at camp, night falling, Aysla makes her rounds, chit-chatting with each of her companions, intentionally saving Astarion for last.

It’s easy enough for her to fall into banter with each of her traveling mates. She's a charmer, both when endearingly drunk and excruciatingly sober.

She leans on that charm tonight - she needs to form a bond of camaraderie with them all, to redeem herself a bit after basically being labeled the weakest link due to her condition the night before. 

Lae-zel seems to forgive any previous misgivings she had of Aysla based on her skill in battle alone. Despite her delicate constitution, she whips a sword like lightning, taking out droves of enemies before they can see where she comes from - a language Lae’zel speaks and admires.

Gale is easy to befriend, too - Aysla lets him talk to his heart’s content, with nothing but an occasional, “wow, how interesting,” which warms him to her quickly. He even reveals some of his own backstory - a dangerous Netherese orb in his chest, requiring him to eat magical items, and his past love affair with a goddess. It dawns on her that based on the timeline he gives, he may have been predated on by Mystra; but she keeps that to herself for now, not wanting to burst the bubble of esteem he seems to still hold her in.

Wyll is too nice, polished, and well-adjusted for Aysla to be able to find any common ground. She gets a sense that he hides something, but she remains polite and unobtrusive. No tragic backstory? No fatal flaw? Doubtful. But she smiles and makes small talk.

Shadowheart, the first to join Aysla on their quest, has begun to grow on her, and vice versa. She nurses a bottle of wine, and they gossip about the others as if they were old pals.

Karlach is an entertaining and sweet addition. She seems to be genuine and eager for friendship, and Aysla reflects on how that always seems to be the case for the terminally ill, while the hopeless, suicidal wretches like herself are all granted nine lives apiece.

Finally, she approaches Astarion.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs. His sharp features glow in the light of the campfire. 

“How’s my favorite, very normal, mortal companion? Feeling thirsty?” she purrs right back.

She wonders if his thirst is as terrible as her own - day two of withdrawals has not been kind to her, and it seems to only be intensifying as the night falls.

“Oh, I manage. Better than you seem to, sweet thing,” he says, teasing her back. “I’ll probably just go and find something four-legged once everyone’s asleep.”

If she didn’t know the look herself, she wouldn’t notice how he is slightly on edge. He’s jumpy, and his eyes are darting around.

She gets the feeling that he’s putting on his best face, but she recognizes what it looks like when someone desperately, direly needs a drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Her intuition is proven right when she wakes to catch him hovering over her, just hours later, fangs bared. 

The first time she experienced alcoholic withdrawals, she didn't understand what was happening. She hadn’t known of such a thing. Hangovers, surely, but spasms? Seizures? Cardiac arrest? No one told her there were repercussions for drinking obscenely for days on end. No one warned her that her body would grow accustomed to it, to the point of need; She had woken up in a cold sweat, only knowing that she needed a drink, right away, or the world would end.

She quickly registers a familiar look in his eyes - shame, urgent hunger - she sees her own reflection.

“Shit,” he says, quickly retreating.

“I’m not mad, just disappointed,” she says, jokingly. She tries her best to convey a light tone, but her voice comes out a hoarse whisper. Her withdrawal symptoms are at their apex now, in the middle of the night, and she’s currently a weak, trembling, tortured mess.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear. I just needed… well, blood.” He whispers back sheepishly.  

You have no idea, she thinks, how much I get it.

“What happened to ‘something four-legged?’” she asks, still careful to stay quiet enough not to wake the camp.

She wonders why he needed to feed on someone in their camp - but she doesn’t question why it would be her. Aysla, the one who is already dying in her sleep; trembling, in a cold sweat. No one would be shocked if she doesn’t make it to morning.

“I couldn’t find anything, and I was so hungry - I was only going to take a little, I swear, just enough to-” he says, but she cut him off.

“No no no, it’s fine; shhh. You needn't explain it to me - of all people,” she says, gesturing to the bottle she's been nursing. He’s thirsty, and she gets it. 

She lies back down, exhausted, in pain, and kind of okay with maybe, potentially, dying right now. “Knock yourself out.”

He pauses and looks at her. “Really? Just like that?”

“Just don't kill me - or, honestly, do; I really feel like shit right now, so,” she trails off.

His eyes flash to her hands, noticing that they tremble awfully now, even at rest by her sides. “I’ll only take a little - I promise,” he assures her.

She remains still, the only form of consent she has the energy for at this point, and he lowers himself gently. She feels his hair on the side of her face, and his breath on her neck, and she thinks to herself that it might feel pleasant if she didn’t also feel like her blood was made of ants right now. 

She hopes that losing some of it might help the feeling. And if he kills her - well, then the feeling will be over anyway, so it’s a win-win.

His lips ghost against her neck, and she feels his hand gripping her hip. Unable to resist the joke, even in her agony, she feigns flirty chastisement. “Now? Astarion…”

He laughs into her neck. “Absolute freak,” he whispers, before biting down.

She feels an icy pinch, like getting an ear piercing, or being cut by a sharp knife. His teeth slice through her skin easily before her body has a chance to register the feeling. She starts to feel lighter each second - a relief from the high blood pressure she's suffered through all night.

She realizes after a few moments that it’s coming to the point where she ought to stop him if she wants to live, but she pauses, deciding if she should. 

If he finished the job, it would be a sort of poetic justice - the drinker, drunk to death.

A faint chuckle escapes her at that thought, and it seems to jolt him back to the moment. He stops, gradually slowing from an intent sucking, to suckling, to lapping, to finally, a tiny lick before he pulls back.

She sees her own dark red blood stain his lips, which he lazily licks.

“I feel incredible. I feel alive, I feel - happy,” he marvels. “Thank you. This is a gift, you know; I won’t forget it.”

He stands up, and then staggers, before catching himself - looking, well, a little drunk.

She already knows the gist of the joke before he gets it out.

“As delicious as you were, darling, I think your blood may be 80 proof,” he says with a smirk.

Suddenly, she feels a strange aura descend.

She loses time. The next second she remembers, her bedroll is crumpled beneath her, and there’s dirt on her arms and blood in her mouth.

Not only do her hands tremble - her arms tremble, her entire body trembles, her bones, her very soul.

When she comes to, Astarion is looking at her from his elbows.

“You weren't kidding. That was… quite horrifying,” he announces.

Her other companions didn’t wake up, which means she must have had her seizure quietly. She snatches the bottle and pulls, and pulls, and pulls.

[thedragonagelesbian]

Cyrus Hawke | Wood Elf | Gloomstalker Ranger/Champion Fighter | He/Him | ~250

What is your Tav’s…

FAVORITE WEAPON: sword + shield, although he's currently wielding the myrkulite scourge flail for the extra necrotic damage + the adamantine shield. I like giving Cyrus the Pelorsun Blade in Act 3, but I kind of want to stick him with the Sword of the Emperor bc. I am not immune to reclaiming weapons out of spite and saying 'i will do better with this' and also getting to kill the Emperor with its own sword.

MOST PRIZED POSSESSION: Cyrus has two things left from his parents that he's been able to keep through everything: an iron dagger from his father enchanted against fey and an Evermeet family heirloom locket from his mother.

DEEPEST DESIRE: When Cyrus left Iriaebor, he thought he was getting his deepest desire: to live his life on his own terms. It took having that life turned upside down to realize how much his solitude had cost him, despite how often he had told himself that he was better off alone. He still wants peace and quiet and to stop hurting, but more than that, he wants those things with Wyll.

GUILTY PLEASURE: super long & luxurious baths

BEST-KEPT SECRET: In addition to being the Champion of Iriaebor, Cyrus was also known as its butcher for his role in slaughtering the enemies of its ruling lady, to whom he was once sworn as a Paladin of Devotion.

GREATEST STRENGTH: Resilience

FATAL FLAW: Self-reliant to a fault

FAVORITE SMELL: Lavender

FAVORITE SPELL OR CANTRIP: Hunter's Mark (killing you killing you killing you), with Goodberry as a runner-up. Not that he has that spell in-game anymore but he will always have it in my heart and I wanted a space to share my headcanon that (a) goodberries' taste is dependent on the caster and (b) Cyrus' goodberries taste like lavender, with a strong initial cedar scent and a slightly burnt aftertaste.

PET PEEVE: Lying

BAD HABIT: Not accepting help

HIDDEN TALENT: Despite his equivocating and his complicated history with it, Cyrus is actually quite the talented dancer, once he's had the time to enjoy it for himself.

LEISURE ACTIVITY: Gardening

FAVORITE DRINK: Non-alcoholic-- tea; alcoholic-- brandy

COMFORT FOOD: Barley & mushroom soup

FAVORITE PERSON(S): Wyll

FAVORED DISPLAY OF AFFECTION (PLATONIC AND/OR ROMANTIC): Service & physical touch; Cyrus has become a very private man with his affection, but everyone knows the lengths he goes to to keep the camp and their supplies in order, and the longer everyone journeys together, the more evident it becomes that Cyrus is quietly keeping track of everyone's health needs and is always ready with medicinal teas and herbs when they're called for.

As for physical affection, that's still an honor only bestowed upon Wyll Ravengard, but Wyll knows that as soon as they're alone together, he is getting hugged and cuddled and smooched and massaged and adored non-stop.

FONDEST CHILDHOOD MEMORY: The first time he can remember his parents saying they were proud of him. After a narrow and dangerous escape from his father's archfey patron when Cyrus was maybe 10 years old, his mother thanked him for making things so easy by not fussing or complaining, and his father told him he was doing such a good job as the light of his family's life.

I was tagged by @the-eldritch-it-gay (thank you!! <333) and will tag @hexblooddruid @covenscribe @ididitforthedogs & anyone else who wants to fill out a lil Tav questionaire

[ravnloft]

wicked turns #1-3.

what's up everybody guess who's writing fanfic again lol. amma theylin (drow rogue/fighter, neutral) and astarion ancunin (high elf rogue/bard, leaning evil) get into Some BullshitTM

1.

“So, there’s a monster hunter down by Auntie Ethel’s place,” Amma says.

It’s midday. No one’s really injured, but after the tension of negotiating with goblins and tea with a hag, the group agreed it’s best to turn in early. Shadowheart is off doing something with incense and murmured prayers. Karlach is already half-naked and wading into the lake, and she gives a loud sigh of relief as the water steams up around her massive shoulders. Gale, without an item of acceptable enchantment level (to him) and worthlessness (to Amma), has decided his talents are better used here in camp, doing… something. Nothing? Whatever. As long as he’s not pestering her for loot, Amma couldn’t care less. Astarion said he’d watch over the poor dear, which is just as well for everyone else, because then they won’t have to deal with his antics, too.

But they’re all back at camp now, and there is a discussion to be had.

“A Gur,” Amma continues. “Said his name was Gandrel.”

Astarion is laid out on his little nest of carpets and cushions like a cat in a sunbeam. She watches him intently– sees the tendons in his hands tighten on the book he’s holding, the twitch of his shirtsleeve where the muscle tenses in his arm. He’s nervous.

“Told us something rather interesting,” comes Wyll’s voice from over her shoulder. He stands soldier-straight. Closer than Amma would like, but for this conversation– well, she’s just glad he’s not so disappointed in her that he wouldn’t stand beside her now. “About a vampire spawn he’s tracking.”

Astarion does his absolute best to be nonchalant. His eyes focus on the page of his book, he licks his thumb, turns the page.

“Tall tales, no doubt,” he says. “Did he ask for money? That’s a trick as old as Balduran. ‘I’m facing unimaginable evils, but I must have alms to fund my fight’. Might as well just make a wish and throw your coin into a well– you’ll see just as much reward for it.” Then, with a cold, sharp edge: “– You didn’t tell him where we’re camping, did you?”

“Should I have?”

Amma waits half a moment to see Astarion’s eyes stray from the page. That’s all the confirmation she needs.

“He was looking for you,” she says.

Astarion is slow and purposeful to stand. Wyll moves beside her, quick, instinctive– she holds her arm out to keep him back. She can hear the whisper of his rapier unsheathing like it has a mind of its own. Who’s the bloodthirsty one now, she wonders idly.

Astarion is just as tense. He’s standing in a way she’s never seen before: like an animal ready to pounce. But he hasn’t. Yet.

Measured, from between his teeth: “And what did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘You smell disgusting, might want to wash up before you speak with the lady of the house, good luck’. And then I left.”

Astarion turns his head and looks at her sidelong for a moment– a hawk, spotting a mouse– before his attention flashes back to the Blade. A hawk, spotting a mouse, and then the crows coming to chase him from the nest.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” says Amma. “Because you’ve been useful so far. If this hunter’s after you, that’s your business. But if you can explain why– then maybe keeping him away from you will be our business.”

She watches Astarion’s chest rise and fall beneath the fine silk of his shirt, watches the noonday sun blaze against his cheek. Shouldn’t that be impossible? Shouldn’t that have killed him already? Shouldn’t he have killed them already? Something keeps him from it. Not simply the tadpole, nor the artifact, and certainly not sentiment. But then– what?

“I’m not saying anything until you stay your blade,” he says to Wyll.

Wyll actually laughs. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well–”

Amma moves closer to Astarion. He steps back, in turn, one harsh line appearing in his face as his jaw clenches. No longer a hawk– an alley dog. Starved and trembling. She’s suddenly aware that everyone in camp has gathered around them: Shadowheart, still in her chain shirt; Karlach, smelling of wet iron, infernal heat coming off her in waves; Gale, propped up on his staff, sleepless, but still able to shoot ice and lightning from his hands.

Amma has never faced a vampire before. Nor has Wyll, if he spoke true to Gandrel. How fast is a spawn? How fast is a spawn with a mind flayer tadpole? Could they put him down before he strikes? Would he kill them? Would he turn them into mindless, bloodless slaves? Can he be felled by simple blades? Do they need a stake? Holy water? To find his grave and burn it?

“So what if I am a vampire?” He raises his hands, a pleading note in his voice. “I’m just as desperate as the rest of you. I’m– I’m a tadpole-haver first, and– a vampire second.”

“That boar,” Amma says, “in the forest.”

“Yes.” His shoulders lower a fraction of an inch, his face falls with relief. “I’m not some monster, lurking in the dark like all the stories. I’ve never even killed anyone! Well– not until recently.” A beat. “Not for food, at least.”

A strange sensation courses through her, and Amma can feel her companion’s mind unfold, secrets half-revealed. Her teeth pierce thick boar-hide and she drinks deep. She takes in his face. His hair, white, unnaturally so. How old is he, really? How many years has his face looked like this? She imagines the skull beneath it, fanged and terrible. She imagines the blood and veins and meat of his brain. The tadpole turns a figure-eight behind her eye. Astarion’s face lurches. His eyes grow wide and he leans away from her, but not before her mind finds purchase in his own– and bites.

There is no camp, no swamp, no Gandrel. There is nothing but blackness and blood. Others’; his own. Hunger. Terror. Hate. Gargantuan sensations, but all of them eclipsed by the sight of his eyes, shining in the dark like raw, fresh, bloody meat, and his voice, cold, cutting to the core, commanding. Ignoring fleas, ignoring mange, teeth find purchase in a rat, crunching its small ribs against the palate, clumps of fur on tongue, it’s rancid and it’s dead but it’s blood blood blood in mouth in throat in stomach–

Reality returns with a dizzying wave of fear and disgust. Amma sways, and so does Astarion– clutching his temple, shrinking back into the shadow of his tent, reeling like a struck hound. Her vision swims. She can still taste blood in the back of her throat. Is it from his memory? Or is it carnage in the wake of the tadpole’s turn, trickling down from the basin of her skull? She pushes it down. If he’s going to fight back–

– He doesn’t fight back.

She looks into the gloom of the tent, into eyes so red they look flayed; he stares back into her, piercing, unmerciful. The connection has been severed, but the memories remain. The way he looks at her– is it disgust? For his own past? For her intrusion? Does he want mercy? Understanding? She doesn’t know, nor does she particularly care, and she doubts she even has those emotions in her anymore.

(What did he unearth in her while she was digging inside him?)

But of this, she’s certain: Astarion is a monster. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A charming thing that rips and claws and feeds as soon as it can get the chance. From the moment they met, he’s never been anything else, whether his blade was at her throat or in a goblin’s belly. There is no quivering conscience in him– not like the others.

She could use a monster.

“Animals,” he gasps. “Rats. Deer. Kobolds. Whatever I can get.” His face twists as he stands; she feels the psionic strands binding all of them together twist with it.

“Not because you wanted to.”

“I– yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I was slow to trust you.”

He’s moved near to her, again– nearer than before. He looks down at her. The shape of his mouth is still holding onto a grimace, a snarl; this close, she can indeed see the pointed fangs between his lips. The sun hits his eyes like rubies. She imagines him covered in gore.

“But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

She doesn’t.

From behind her– Wyll’s disdain: “Enough of this.” The sound of his blade unsheathed again.

“Stop,” Amma says sharply. “He stays. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Thank you,” Astarion sighs. In an instant, he’s back to his usual self: he throws his hands out wide, inviting, grins at them all. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And just like that, we’re all friends again. Now, do try to get some rest, will you? You’re all looking somewhat worse for wear.”

Shadowheart simply shrugs and goes back to her prayers. Gale and Wyll walk off together, grumbling darkly. Karlach turns, runs, and jumps back into the lake with a joyous whoop.

Astarion does not pick his book back up. Instead, he starts putting on his boots.

“Thought you trusted us,” Amma says.

“I trust you plenty.”

He whistles a happy tune, picks up his blade, thumbs the edge of it carefully. He makes a little show of gathering his things and buttoning his gambeson. When she doesn’t leave, he shoots her a smile– a real smile, sharp and scheming.

“Which is why you’re invited to help me kill this Gur.”

2.

For a creature that must drink blood, Astarion loves to waste the stuff.

Sure, there’s satisfaction to be found in killing; sure, there’s a pleasure in putting someone’s insides on the outside. There’s bloodlust and delight in violence. He has these traits. There’s also common sense– strategy– not running headfirst into a fight against someone willing to bet their soul on killing him. He does not have these. It’s a lack that Shadowheart was ready to slap him over after removing four arrows from Astarion’s chest and one from Amma’s leg, bless her dark heart.

Regardless– Gandrel is dead, everyone else is alive, and after going through the hunter’s things, Amma is a whole one gold and three silver richer than before. She’s calling it a win.

Before this, Amma was used to traveling with humans, dwarves, tieflings– plenty of strange folk, certainly– but not elves. She’s used to being the only one who needs a four-hour trance instead of an eight-hour sleep. Now, she has Astarion to deal with. She’s not happy about it. She’d use the extra time to study maps or textbooks on the task at hand, sharpen her blades, rifle through other people’s belongings to see if they had anything valuable; these aren’t activities that are aided by having someone else up and wandering around, asking what she’s doing.

For the last few nights, she had been working on a map of the nautiloid crash region– no idea if it was actually accurate or not, but at least it gave them some sense of direction– and trying to ignore Astarion’s existence. Tonight, given recent revelations, she’s opted to leave the camp entirely. Went off to the river with her bedroll and some soap and salvaged linens from the blighted village. (She hasn’t told anyone else she has these.) She’s gathered an untenable amount of blood and muck in her long hair, and she doesn’t want to cut it. They kept it shaved in Ched Nasad. It must be washed.

The water here is fresh and clear and cold. The soap smells so strongly of lavender that Amma suspects it was meant for laundry and not skin, but it’s all she has, so she’ll make do. Soon she sees the current outlined in bloody, pink suds. She lets her mind go blank and dark. She thinks of nothing but the small pains of frigid water against her skin, of pulling snags and tangles out of her hair. Wishes she had oil and a comb. Wishes she had a real tub. Wishes she was back in Baldur’s Gate, spending the night in a nice, busy tavern, full of pockets she can pick and goblets she can down. She stays on the riverbank long after she’s dry. She sets her bedroll out on the grass, curls up, and allows herself to fall into a trance.

Maybe she wakes up because she knows something is wrong. Maybe she just gets lucky.

“Shit,” Astarion mutters, inches from her face.

He stands quickly, holds his hands up, steps away from her. On instinct, she throws a dagger from under her pillow. It thunks ominously into a tree next to his head.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he panics.

As he stumbles through the explanation, she stalks to the tree, removes the dagger, and holds it to his throat.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

He draws his face into the now-familiar expression he gets when he’s trying to look harmless. “Because, I–” And then he swats the dagger out of her hand.

Not one to give up a fight, Amma slams her elbow into his face. She can hear his teeth click together. The pained sound he makes is very satisfying.

“You–” he snarls, then catches himself, tries to act human. “I wasn’t– I’m not here to hurt you.”

Amma takes advantage of his momentary lapse to wade ankle-deep into the stream, grab a piece of driftwood, and snap it over her knee.

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” he says– but keeps his distance. When she doesn’t drop the makeshift stake, he takes another step back. Breathes in deep to calm himself.

“I swear on my own grave, Amma, I am not here to harm you. I just want to talk.”

A long moment of consideration. She watches him– he’s relaxed, as best he can while rubbing his swiftly-bruising chin. He could have killed her, just then. Easily. Could have used her own knife against her. Could have taken a fistful of her hair and smashed her head into a rock or held it under the water until she stopped moving. But he didn’t.

“So talk,” she says.

Astarion looks at her feet in the water and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Then he bends down and retrieves her dagger from the riverbank, holds it behind his back; he walks to the edge of the stream, places one foot on a protruding rock, and extends his free hand nobly to her.

“Come out of there and be civilized, will you?”

Warily, she sloshes over to him. She takes his hand. It’s cold, and soft, and when he closes his fingers around hers, it’s surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t pull her in so much as simply drift along with her. Without letting go, he leans down again and retrieves one of the linens she’d left drying on the shore, hands it to her.

“I’m sorry, I…” His voice trails off as he looks at her. He’s close enough for her to smell the perfume lingering on his clothes. His eyes come alive in the dark, bright and precious. He’s still holding her hand in his, practiced, graceful.

She pulls her hand away.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Ah– yes. About today, earlier… fighting that monster hunter.”

Is it that he’s sorry for charging in like an idiot? He’s sorry for putting the group in danger like that, and it won’t happen again? Thank you, Amma, for protecting me so bravely from all the people who are trying to kill me?

“I just feel so… weak.” His face twists with the now-familiar look of disgust. For a moment, she’s struck with something– pity, maybe? Recognition? “Feeding on animals– it’s not enough. Not if I need to fight.”

That disgust, it’s something she feels, too. A rat in her mouth. A voice in his ear. They both know what it’s like to be made weak and small by someone else.

“If I just had a little blood,” he continues, “I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

“No. Go take it from somebody else.”

“Oh, you mean the cleric? Or the Blade of Frontiers? Or the tiefling that incinerates everything she touches? Or the man who can explode me with his mind? No. It has to be you.”

“The hells it does.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if we had any other choice,” he grimaces. “I need you alive. You need me strong. That’s the only way we’re going to save ourselves from these worms.”

He’s close to her. He’s very close to her. He could just reach out and trap her, but he doesn’t. And that’s somehow infuriating to her: that he would ask to bite her, that he seemingly cares what she would say. It blurs the line of trust– and mistrust– that she thought they’d drawn. It invites– sentimentality.

“Give me back my dagger,” she says.

“No, you’re going to stab me with it.”

“Give me back my dagger, and I’ll let you drink my blood.”

He cocks his head– a hawk, a mouse; a fox, a vole.

He pulls the blade hesitantly from behind his back. Hands it over to her. The way he watches her is predatory, dissective– his eyes linger at her collarbone, her jaw, her throat.

“It’ll only be a taste,” he breathes. “I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

“No, it won’t.”

Her blade flashes in the moonlight, and she presses it into her own palm.

“Get on your knees,” she tells him.

He does, but slowly. Calculating. There isn’t any worry in his face as he looks up at her (he thinks he’s good at hiding that kind of thing, but he’s not). Wariness, yes, but not fear. Instead, there is… intrigue. Fascination.

With red eyes fixed on the knife against her skin, he says, “You’re making this far more dramatic than it needs to be. You can just lie back. You won’t even feel a thing.”

Amma draws the blade across her palm, snikt, squeezes her hand into a fist so the blood streams thick and hot over her wrist. Holds it out to him.

“Stop talking,” she says.

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes hold of her forearm with one hand, his grip much harder than is gentlemanly, and pries her fingers open with his other. He presses her bleeding palm to his lips with fervor. She can feel his teeth against the base of her fingers, his dead tongue lapping that which spills down to her wrist. It’s nauseating and thrilling in equal measure.

Eventually: “That’s enough.” She pulls her bloodied hand away from him. His grip shifts to her elbow, and his mouth moves to her wrist. He bares his fangs.

“Stop it,” she hisses. Jabs the pommel of her dagger hard into his jaw to try and make him let up. He does– falls back, clutching his jaw. For a moment, they lock eyes. She can see her blood dripping down his chin, coating his teeth, black in the moonlight. He can see the soft, naked pulse point in her neck.

He lunges.

This time, Amma has no chance to struggle– she’s already seeing stars just from what he’s taken at her wrist. When he bites down into her neck, it’s nothing like the hot snikt of a blade; it’s like a shard of ice. Her breath catches, her heart thrums. She can feel her blood racing as it courses through both their bodies. She feels cold.

She panics– acts on instinct– stabs. Her dagger drives easily into the meat of his thigh. He draws his head up from her with a horrible gasp, sending fat drops of blood across their shirts, lowing in pain. When he releases her, Amma’s legs give out. She can’t feel her feet.

“You wretched–” He grits his crimson teeth together and removes the dagger from his thigh. The rest of his sentence devolves into a painful snarl.

Her vision is dark at the edges. She can see him coming back to her as though through a telescope. She fumbles against him desperately, trying to push him back with bloodless limbs.

“Stop–” Her voice is hoarse and weak. His hands close around her wrists and force them to the ground, pinning her easily, effortlessly. “Astarion, stop–”

After that, all she feels is cold. There’s no more fear. No more struggle. Her vision goes dark knowing he’s still on her neck.

There are worse ways to die.

3.

“No, no, you can’t die!”

The voice is muffled, unrecognizable. The world is dark. What happened? Who is this?

“Get up, damn you–”

There are hands at her chest, her wrist, her neck. Someone grips her chin and turns her head and it sends dull, throbbing pain all down the side of her torso. She smells blood, wet leaves, dirt. Back in prison? No, it doesn’t smell right. The wardens gave up trying to keep her alive after the fourth time she removed the bandages, anyway.

The hands leave her and she hears shuffling, rattling. She tries to turn over to her side. It’s hard. She’s so cold. So tired. Dimly, in the back of her mind, one dread thought forms: she failed. The Matron will be angry.

Healing magic shoots through her like a lightning bolt. A pale elven face swims into focus above her. She punches it.

“Agh! Gods damn it–”

Forest. Dawn, or close to it. Old, sticky blood on her hands. Astarion.

“I understand you’re upset, but let’s not get carried away,” she can hear him saying. It’s harsh and tight through gritted teeth. Amma sits up– difficult, painful. An awful, wet, metallic cough seizes in her throat. It makes her vision swim with pain.

“You fucking killed me,” she manages after a moment.

“‘Killed’ feels like a strong word,” he counters quickly. She watches him dab his knuckles under his nose, checking to see if it’s bleeding. It is. He grimaces. “Not many corpses have your vigor. Besides, I brought you back, didn’t I?”

She watches him. He watches her. The feeling of her body is starting to return. Her limbs feel weak, like the joints were loosened. Her neck throbs with every frantic beat of her heart. She struggles to blink stars out of her eyes.

“Now, I admit, I got a little– carried away last night,” he says. He lowers his chin and flutters his pretty lashes at the ground. “I apologize.”

“Take more than an apology,” Amma growls.

“Regardless, look at you now. Perfectly healthy! So let’s not fall out over this.”

She doesn’t feel perfectly healthy. She feels like, if she were to rate her bodily vivacity on a scale of zero to eighteen, with zero being dead and eighteen being pre-tadpole Amma, she’d be at a one right now.

His pale hand comes into view, open, delicate. He’s offering to help her up.

“We still need each other, after all,” he says.

She ignores it. “Do we?”

Clearly offended: “A strong, well-fed vampire? I’m a powerful weapon– you’d be a fool to toss me aside now.”

She’s loath to admit it, but he’s right.

“I didn’t trust you to begin with,” Amma says, “and I don’t trust you now. Go back to camp. We’ll talk about it later.”

He lingers.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asks. It’s– disarmingly soft.

A wave of disgusting unhappiness washes over her. Not just at him, but at the memories he’s reminded her of. The Underdark. The Matron. Failure. Whether he intended to or not, Astarion has her at his mercy, and he’s the first person in over a hundred years to do that.

“Just go,” Amma spits at him.

He goes.

[echthr0s]

the Otherworldly Companion (OC) masterpost

(aka "who the fuck are these people you're tagging")

Nuadha is what's commonly called the "Dark Urge", but with some modifications. She is an avatar of a largely-forgotten god (in this part of Toril, anyway) who ran afoul of both Bhaal and his Chosen. She travels Faerûn in the company of future Hero of Baldur's Gate Wyll Ravengard searching for a cure to a mindflayer affliction and a reunion with the sundered fragments of her Self.

Dayir and Ishan are my Eorzean Warriors of Varying Luminosity, as it were, and there's a lil about post about them here. Sesshai is their tricksy Viera bestie that I don't talk about nearly enough, for some reason.

Noah Kingfisher is the Sole Survivor of Vault 111; Gabriel the Revelator is the Lone Wanderer; and Gideon of the Grave is Courier Six. Noah is a literal child of Atom, and Gabriel is the next-closest thing, being genetically manipulated by Atom in utero. Noah also exists in Halcyon and Far Cry 5's Montana (along with Preston Garvey).

Anansi Surana is both the Grey Warden that ends the Blights once and for all, and the Herald of [???] (Razikale, but no one knows that) that lays the groundwork for a new world. he's also a First Enchanter for a while. he gets around, you could say. Elijah Wolf (or, Elijah Hawk-child, for much of DA2) is Lord Protector of Kirkwall but that doesn't stop him or his seneschal Varric Tethras from gallivanting off to Skyhold. I don't play in the Dragon Age space much anymore, unfortunately, so don't expect much about these guys unless they respawn in another universe (which is highly possible). or unless I play DA4. which is also possible.

Adrian Shepard is Commander of the SSV Normandy and the scourge of the Reapers. until he becomes something bigger than the Reapers. good thing he's on our side.

Claudio V Invictus is the Saint of Saints and the CEO of Saintscorp. he is the owner of every single pair of the booty shorts in those "shorts that say [x] on the ass" memes.

there are others -- Keahi the Watcher of Caed Nua, Llovyn Arendur of Skyrim, Ananduil and Venanduil of Azeroth, loads more Thedosians, etc -- but they don't have populated tags yet because they simply haven't come up nearly as often.

questions, comments, crack headcanons, etc about anyone here are extremely encouraged and appreciated. you truly cannot go wrong

(side note: #spicy oc tag is where all the nasty posts go. because there will be nasty posts. I delight in debauchery)

[zorkaya-moved]

‘ none of them trust me. ’ bg3 💀

@todestochter

It almost makes her laugh in the face of the other. No one? Oh, she's a fool to think that no one trusts her. There is trust in her abilities and there is trust that she won't go insane in the middle of the day. There are those fools who truly trust her and the Frigid Moon almost wants to break her apart by agreeing, but she will not be doing that solely because breaking down the spirit of this woman isn't worth it. They all have those little worms inside their heads, they need to keep together until this issue will be solved, even if nighttime isn't something she can trust.

Thus, Zarina opens her mouth to surprise the other:

"You are incorrect in your observations," she begins, pointing with her glance at several of the campers who are talking between each other. "Gale trusts you, he's been trying to find ways to keep your 'nightwalks' covered. Karlach trusts you too. Wyll is trying to encourage you daily. Lae'zel and Shadowheart trust your skills in battle. Astarion trusts you won't kick him out or give him away. I trust you're too stubborn to die and give up," Zarina doesn't have any malice in her words, solely explaining her viewpoint in terms of trust. Milou didn't specify what kind of trust she wants from others, correct? There are countless facades to the presence of trust. And so, Moonseeker talks of what she believes would be essential. "There is trust in you, you're just too deep in your urges and self-doubt you keep ignoring it. Find positives in your situation."

It'd be too bad if Mingate gives in to those urges. It won't be as fun to watch her struggle and fight. After speaking with Astarion, listening to a lecture from Gale and Wyll, and then also speaking with Withers, Hawke came to a conclusion she won't be so tough on this one... only in regards to her general psychology. She still will remind her how there was a breach of trust between them, nights are no longer safe for the Astral Elf.

"Fight against my words if you're so confident in yourself, Milou. Just because I don't trust you doesn't mean others don't. Others sleep fine with you in the camp at night," but not me. "Are you giving up now? Withers has high views on you. Keep fighting, it'd be a sad story if you give up on yourself. You're so adamant about your control... You rejected me so passionately before. So keep that attitude consistent."

[janearts]

The way you draw Astarion and Gale is -chef kiss- but I am obligated to round out the trio and say I love the way you do Wyll. He has such a Disney Prince vibe going and it's excellent

Thank you! I love—LOVE—thinking about Wyll as the classic “derring-do” swashbuckling hero like those played by Errol Flynn in Captain Blood (1935), The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), and The Sea Hawk (1940). You know the type: the hero who cuts the right rope to send a chandelier crashing down onto his enemies, who engages in witty repartee during a sword fight with their nemesis, who fights to some upbeat horns in a symphonic soundtrack likely composed by Erich Wolfgang Korngold. Wyll’s got all the charisma, self-confidence, nobleness of spirit, and athleticism of those early adventure film heroes, but with more emotional depth (and breadth, imo), playfulness, and vulnerability. I think that combo is what gives him the “Disney Prince” vibe.